World Enough and Time

by Lauren Gallagher

  It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse. I counted my blessings and reached back to unsnap my bra, but a torrent of fresh pain brought tears to my eyes. I took a few slow, deep breaths, as deep as I could with sore ribs. When it had receded, I tried again, moving slowly this time, but the pain stopped me again.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, as much from frustration as pain. I held my breath and tried again.

  “Here, let me help.” Connor’s voice startled me. He dropped his overnight bag beside the bed and came over to me.

  “I can get it,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Probably, but there’s no sense causing yourself more pain when someone else can get it for you.” He gently grasped my wrists and brought them down to my sides. “I’ve got it.”

  “I thought you and bra straps didn’t get along.” I grinned at him.

  “I’ll manage. Now turn around.”

  I did, and he tugged gently at the strap. A second later, it went slack.

  “Ha! Got it on the first try,” he said, grinning as I turned back around.

  “It’s easy when you can see what you’re doing, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Hey, don’t steal my thunder, woman.”

  “I could make you do it again with your eyes closed.”

  “That’s assuming you could get it snapped again,” he said.

  “Damn it,” I said. “You and that logic again.”

  “Wins every time.” He flashed me a toothy grin, and then we both finished getting ready for bed.

  Though settling into bed was an exercise in agony, I finally managed to get comfortable. Connor hesitated to cuddle up against me, afraid he’d jar me or press against a bruise, but after I assured him I wouldn’t break, he moved beside me. He draped his arm over my waist, carefully avoiding my ribs, and the heat of his body against mine did wonders for easing some of the pain. “Heat not ice,” said the good doctor, and he was right.

  Just as I expected, though, I didn’t sleep. Connor’s breathing fell into the slow, steady rhythm of slumber, but I was still wide awake, staring into the darkness.

  It wasn’t the pain that kept me awake, though, nor was it the caffeine from my recent soda. It was this unnerving lack of a safety net. Connor’s ex was farther out of the picture than I’d thought. He was over her, which meant he was free to get emotionally involved with someone else. With me, if he was so inclined.

  That terrified me because I knew this couldn’t last. What if he fell for me the way I was falling for him?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For the first couple of days after the incident with Dante, the pain was excruciating. More than once, I wondered if the X-rays had missed a fracture or two in my ribs, but by the third day the pain started to subside. Though I could get around, getting up and down the stairs of my apartment building was too painful unless I absolutely needed to go somewhere.

  Fortunately, I didn’t need to go anywhere for the first few days. Connor came by to keep me company in the evenings, bringing with him takeout and, when I begged him to, alcohol. Even in a world of pain, there were worse ways to spend an evening than sitting back on the couch with Connor and a couple of beers. I definitely wasn’t used to that; Matt had always viewed my injuries, particularly those requiring any type of convalescence, as an inconvenience.

  With each passing day, it became clearer and clearer: Connor was nothing like Matt.

  And thank God for that.

  Connor hadn’t objected in the slightest to spending time with me every night, even though he knew there was absolutely no chance of anything more than a kiss. For two people involved in a casual, sex-only relationship, it occurred to me after a few days, we certainly did enjoy each other’s company even when sex was off the menu.

  Finally, the pain took its leave and I could get around without more than a vague twinge here and there. And now that I could get around, there was only one place I wanted to be.

  The second he opened his front door, I knew Connor was thinking something. We hadn’t made love in over a week, and now that I could finally move, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was on tonight’s agenda. That was why we hadn’t even bothered making plans to go out.

  “Let’s just get together and fuck,” he’d said so eloquently when we’d spoken on the phone earlier. Only Connor could be so brazen and be so sexy about it, and knowing what awaited me tonight, I’d struggled all day long to concentrate on even the simplest tasks.

  But now, when I walked into his apartment and his lip curled into the most mouthwatering, devious grin I’d ever seen, something told me tonight would be different. Very different.

  “What?” I said.

  “What?” He batted his eyes.

  “That look.”

  “What look?”

  “That one.”

  He put his hands up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and eyed him playfully. “You’re thinking something.”

  “I’m thinking nothing.”

  “That’s not what that look says,” I said.

  He put both hands over his heart and sighed with mock offense. “Dani Blake, are you accusing me of coming up with some sort of diabolical scheme that involves you naked in my bed?”

  I laughed. “Yes, I am.”

  “What kind of pervert do you take me for?” he said.

  “Are you suggesting that my accusations are unfounded?”

  He put his hands on my hips and kissed me. “Absolutely not.”

  “So what do you have in mind?”

  “You’ll see,” he murmured into another kiss. Then he paused, cocking his head. “Well, technically you won’t, but…” He trailed off, shook his head, and kissed me again.

  “Wait, what does that mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” He held both of my hands and tugged me toward him, urging me to follow him when he took one step toward the bedroom, then another.

  I resisted, digging my heels in even but not quite keeping myself from laughing. “No, you tell me what you have up your sleeve first.”

  “Well, where’s the fun in that?” He grinned. “Come on, you’ll love it.”

  “Connor—”

  “Come on.” He pulled a little harder and the devilish grin turned to a boyish, pleading look. “Please?”

  “Okay, if you put it like that.” I let him lead me into the bedroom, excitement fluttering in my stomach while I tried to figure out what he had in mind.

  “I was going to do this the other night,” he said, closing the bedroom door behind us, “but with you being hurt, I figured it could wait.”

  “How kind of you.” I eyed him warily. “So what—”

  He laughed and pulled me to him, kissing me gently. “Relax. Just trust me.”

  “I do trust you. Except when you have that particular sparkle in your eyes.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What sparkle?”

  “That one,” I said. “Now tell me.”

  He grinned and played with my hair. “Remember what I said about how touch is so erotic, I could drive you wild without even touching your pussy?”

  I shivered. “How could I forget?”

  “Well, tonight,” he said. “I’m going to prove it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is.” He kissed me gently. “So, we’ll start with taking everything off.” He reached for his belt buckle. “But I also have something for you to put on.”

  Unbuttoning my blouse, I raised an eyebrow. “A strap-on?”

  He chuckled. “No. Not a strap-on.”

  “Oh thank God.” I shimmied out of my blouse. “That would have ruined the surprise for tomorrow night.”

  His eyebrows jumped.

  I laughed. “I’m kidding.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Give me some credit, Connor.” I clicked my tongue and shook my head. “Strap-ons are reserved for special occasions.”

&
nbsp; He eyed me. “You’re feisty tonight, aren’t you?”

  Unclasping my bra and dropping it on top of my other clothes, I said, “Is that a problem?”

  “Not in the least.” He folded his jeans over his arm and set them on the dresser. “But I’m calling the shots tonight, so behave yourself.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  “Well, you don’t have to…” He looked at me with what could only be described as puppy dog eyes.

  “Okay, when you put it like that,” I laughed.

  He chuckled and slipped off his boxers. Then he picked up a black satin blindfold off the dresser. Holding it out, he raised his eyebrows.

  I bit my lip and took the blindfold, looking at it warily. It was rare that I was willing to surrender my sight like this. Off the cuff, I’d agreed to something like this in the past, but when it came down to putting on the blindfold, I’d balked.

  “You okay with wearing that?” He touched my arms, and the humor was gone from his voice. “If you’re not comfortable with this…”

  “No, I’m fine.” I gave him a reassuring smile, but couldn’t completely ignore the odd feeling that twisted in my gut. Specifically, the fact that I was completely comfortable with this.

  I slipped on the blindfold, pulling it down over my eyes and trusting him. Trusting him way, way more than I should have trusted someone with whom I had only a casual relationship.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I shouldn’t be. But I am.

  “Good,” he said, a grin in his voice.

  Then he fell silent. Though he didn’t speak, he moved around me. When he stopped, I was fairly certain he was directly behind me, but couldn’t be sure.

  I gasped when his hands came to rest on my shoulders. For a moment, they were still, just touching me. Then, one finger at a time lifted off my skin, followed by his palms, leaving only his thumbs on the edges of my shoulder blades. Slowly, he drew them down, tracing parallel lines down either side of my spine. I shivered, but didn’t even realize I’d held my breath until he completely broke contact and I released it.

  With sight denied, my other senses had to work harder, and as a result became hyperaware. Even the faintest stimuli drew my attention, whether it was the whisper of his breath against my skin or a single fingertip trailing down my arm. I picked up on the minutiae that would have otherwise gone unnoticed: the carpet crushing beneath his feet whenever he moved around me. The slow, controlled rhythm of his breathing. The jump of my own pulse whenever he touched me.

  Fingers trailed down my arm. Then along the curve of my waist and the swell of my hip. After sweeping my hair over my shoulder, he ran a barely-touching fingertip down the side of my neck. Every touch, however light, made my breath catch.

  He didn’t say a word. Aside from my neck, he didn’t touch me anywhere I could have considered erogenous. Nevertheless, every time he touched me, he sent shivers down my spine, each more intense than the last. Soon that tingling spread to my clit, coaxing the very earliest warmth of intense arousal into existence.

  Stepping around in front of me, Connor took my hands in his. Were his hands always that warm? They weren’t as calloused as mine; he had the soft hands of a man who made his living at a keyboard, not with reins and saddles. Nerve endings all over my body crackled to life at the thought of all the places those gentle, smooth hands had touched me before and would touch me again.

  He guided me forward. I guessed he was drawing me toward the bed, assuming I wasn’t completely disoriented and remembered which way I was facing. I followed his lead and he patiently waited for each blind, tentative step I took.

  After we’d gone a few steps, he stopped, so I did the same. Then he put his hands on my hips and turned me, gently nudging me against the bed.

  “Lie back,” he whispered. “However is comfortable.”

  I hoisted myself onto the bed and searched for the pillows. When I found them, I did as he asked. The bed creaked softly each time I shifted my weight, and the comforter and pillows rustled while I lay on my back.

  More rustling and creaking announced that he’d joined me and was lying beside me.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Only the heat of his body close to mine and his near-silent breathing told me he was still there at all.

  When he broke the silence, his voice was soft, but resonated across my nerve endings as if he’d spoken right next to my skin. “I’ve always thought that there is nothing in the world as sexy as the feeling of skin”—he laid his hand across my belly, the sudden contact taking my breath away—“on skin.”

  He lifted his hand, but didn’t take it away completely. At first I thought the residual warmth on my skin was my imagination, an after image of his touch, but when that heat moved, I realized his hand still hovered just above my skin. I followed the strange sensation, my mind’s eye superimposing his hand over my arm, my breast, my side. What began as a vague hint of proximity became acute awareness, the mere nearness of his hand making my nerves react as if he was touching me. And the more he teased me with this near-touch, the more I wanted the real thing. Nerve endings tingled when his hand came near, as if trying to reach for him. With millimeters of nothing separating us, I ached for his touch.

  His hand passed over my hipbone and paused just above my pussy. With every second he lingered there, my heart raced a little faster, matching the maddening pulsing from my clit.

  “You want me to touch you, don’t you?” His breath caressed my neck like I desperately wished his hand would do to my pussy.

  I bit my lip. “Yes, I do.”

  He laughed softly, the tantalizing coolness of his breath raising goose bumps all over me. “I will, don’t you worry.” His hand was moving again, this time coming back up toward my chest. My hips lifted slightly, trying to follow him, and I released a frustrated whimper.

  I expected him to say something else, to playfully taunt me a little more, so my senses preemptively focused where his breath would brush my skin.

  In that moment, when my guard was down, a single fingertip drew a gentle circle around my nipple and I gasped, my spine lifting off the bed. His finger left electricity in its wake, thrumming just beneath my skin as he drew circle after circle.

  “Like that?” he whispered. I murmured an affirmative, my entire body trembling as he finally touched me, as he barely touched me. That fingertip followed the curve of my breast, then drifted across my chest, drawing with it my complete and total focus. Nothing existed but that point of contact. He teased, aroused, tantalized. All with the touch of a single fingertip.

  Then his palm joined his fingertip, resting on my belly just as he’d done earlier. I bit my lip and wriggled against his hand as if some part of my mind, aroused beyond reason, thought to get every inch of my skin beneath his palm and fingertips, as if I could somehow divide that gentle, intense warmth over every nerve ending that would have it.

  My breath caught when his hand moved to my side. Holding every last iota of my focus and awareness in the palm of his hand, he traced a slow, meandering path down my side, over my hip, down my thigh. His fingers dipped to the back of my knee, pausing to make a slow, light circle that lifted both my knee and back off the bed.

  “Oh, my God,” I murmured, vaguely aware of bed sheets bunching in my clawing fingers, but mostly distracted by the warm softness of his touch trailing down the back of my calf.

  “Like that?” There was a hint of laughter in his whispered words.

  I nodded, whimpering when his hand came back up and inched dangerously close to my pussy. I held my breath, wondering if I’d lose my mind faster if he did or didn’t touch my clit.

  At the last possible second, his hand changed direction and drifted over my hipbone instead, and I released my breath, unsure if it was a sigh of relief or a frustrated exhalation.

  He cupped my breast, his thumb circling my nipple as his finger had done earlier. I whimpered again.

 
; “Jesus fucking Christ, Connor,” I breathed.

  “See what I mean?” he said. “All I’ve done is touch you.”

  I squirmed beneath his hand’s gentle, powerful presence. “All you’ve done is tease me.”

  “Tease you?” He laughed. “Are you suggesting that any of this has been unpleasant?”

  “Not at all, just…” I moaned as his thumb changed direction again.

  “Just what?”

  I pulled in a breath from the electrified air. “Frustrating.”

  “What a terrible thing for me to do, frustrating you like that.” Lifting his hand away, he shifted beside me. “‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand,’” he whispered, “‘This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand’” —his breath warmed my skin, announcing his mouth’s proximity to my breast—“‘To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’” His lips closed around my nipple. He teased it with his tongue while his hands slid under my arching back.

  “‘Good pilgrim, you—” I paused, trying to remember the line. “‘You do wrong your hand too much, which—‘” It was there, somewhere in my memory, but too many years had gone by, or maybe the touch of Connor’s lips was just too sensual and distracting. “Which…”

  He released a warm breath of laughter against my skin and kissed his way up my chest. Gently grasping my forearm while he spoke, he took over: “‘Which mannerly devotion shows in this” —his hand moved down to my wrist— “for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,” —he laid my arm back on the pillow beside me— “and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” Connor’s palm covered mine and our fingers laced together.

  I exhaled and when some of that warmth returned to my lips, I knew he was close. Swallowing hard, I said, “I thought you weren’t a fan of Romeo and Juliet.”

  Another laugh, another whisper of breath on skin that needed to be touched. “I never said I didn’t like it, just that it’s not much of a love story.” He brought my other arm up and pinned it as well. “It is, however, sexy as hell in places.”